


Delete

by rants_and_bants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Sherlock’s thoughts, The Hounds of Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 11:38:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17507885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rants_and_bants/pseuds/rants_and_bants
Summary: After telling John that he doesn’t have friends, John leaves.  Now Sherlock is thinking, but he can’t shake the memory of John’s betrayed face...Can be viewed as Johnlock or as friendship.





	Delete

“I don’t have friends!” His lip curls with the word. Friends are unnecessary, useless, bad. They will only distract you from what’s important. Through his drunken haze, his thoughts are more scattered than they should be. He trys to pull them together. You must be distant.

John looks at him for a moment, then stands up. “Wonder why?” He leaves, and Sherlock is left alone.

Obviously, John is angry. At what? The friends comment. Of course. John thinks they’re friends.

Now, Sherlock cannot deny the fact that he has thought of John as a friend before. There have been moments when he expects John to be there, and when he isn’t, there’s an odd empty feeling. There have been times where Sherlock has liked John for more than his abilities.

But he had stopped all those thoughts in the moments he had them, slammed his hand down on the pause button. Friends are dangerous. Sherlock Holmes certainly doesn’t have any. While Sherlock isn’t usually one to shy away from danger, friendship is of a different kind than solving a crime. Criminals, and the crimes they do, are predictable. There’s always evidence. A mistake.

Most importantly, the crime is already done.

Friends, however, are different because Sherlock can never tell what plans are being laid out. Those skills that so help him in solving cases in “friends” have only led to quick conclusions, everything being discarded because of the possibility that they have a connection to someone he distrusts. He’d still keep them close, but the trust everyone says is necessary for a friendship wouldn’t be there.

And hence, the rules. No friends anymore, Sherlock told himself one night. Friends are dangerous. You must be distant. It was after a particularly bad day, he recalls now. An acquaintance had called him, asking if he wanted to meet sometime that day. Sherlock had been in the middle of a case, and as he was so often, irritable and unable to concentrate on anything else. “I’m busy.” Sherlock remembers the conversation conversation perfectly. “There’s a case. It’s important.”

“You always have a case, Sherlock. You weren’t free last week either. You said you’d try for a time.”

“Did I? I forgot. Well, I’m busy now.”

“Are you even sorry? You really don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“You’re not, are you?” His acquaintance had sighed from the other end of the phone line. Sherlock remembers wishing they were in person; he was always bad at reading what to say by phone. It’s why he prefers to text.

“I’m very sorry, but I have a case to get to. Goodbye.” He thought it was best to cut it off as soon as possible. The conversation was spiraling down too quickly for him to figure out. Social interaction. The one thing you’ve always been terrible at. 

“You’re just going to leave, are you? Some friend you are! Well, you won’t be hearing from me again. And when you’re all alone, addicted again, unable to even understand what a friendship entails, I won’t be sorry, because let me tell you what I should have realized right off the bat: you’re a psychopath, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s hand had been hovering over the end call button for awhile. He pressed it. Then he went home and made a new rule. No friends allowed. No emotional attachments. It’s dangerous, and distracting. You must be distant.

Sometimes, when he thinks he made the wrong decision back then, making that rule, Sherlock makes himself replay that memory. The night, especially. All the emotion, the feelings about another person, because that person had used a single word. The hatred against himself. It was simply unwise, to let anyone have such power over him. The rule is for his own safety.

And now, too, it is for his own safety. Feelings are not allowed, and John should be conscious of that. What he said is fine. If John was hurt, it was necessary.

Sherlock keeps telling himself this, repeating it, all the way back. He’ll talk to John in the morning. John will understand. John always understands.

And if he doesn’t, it’s better, right? It’s always better to stay detached; he can’t go making exceptions.

Sherlock lights up a cigarette, watching the wind blow the smoke northeast. He closes his eyes, recalling the painful scene, pausing the memory at the exact moment he never wants to see. Delete. He tries again and again, but John’s betrayed face is imprinted in his head, branded on every wall of his mind palace.

Delete.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this awhile back, and only slightly edited it, so it’s hardly great. Still, I hope you enjoyed! This is my first fanfiction for this fandom, and I’m open to any (constructive) criticism. Follow me on tumblr @sashasthoughtsaretakingover.  
> Thank you for reading,  
> Sasha.


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